


Small, Velvet, Square

by bbcsherlockian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Marriage Proposal, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:50:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcsherlockian/pseuds/bbcsherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock Holmes tries to propose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small, Velvet, Square

Everything he has always done, he has done with elegant flourish and finesse. When he turns his head the tendons in his neck strain perfectly against his skin. When he finishes a case he will stride away with boundless confidence, his mind arching beautifully, effortlessly before he crashes in my lap in front of the television. When he talks his lips and tongue cooperate in such harmony and precision that I am constantly in awe of the sheer improvisation of it. Everything is calculated, flawless and utterly, utterly in control. 

So when he freezes in the doorway, his knuckles blazing white in clenched fists at his sides (a thousand stars) and the air crackling with the fierceness of words not yet spoken, I turn in my chair and wait for him to reveal what holds him in such palpable discomfort and unease. I blink and his forgotten breath is released from his chest, shuddering out of his lungs (my lungs) and burning the omnipotent silence. He walks across the floorboards and his shoes release the shuddering cries of a heavy, uncertain tread, but it is so unlike the sound of his familiar and assured step that I swallow loudly with trepidation. 

When he reaches me he nervously avoids my gaze, and I fancy that I can smell the newly beaded sweat radiating off him, that I can hear his fingernails grazing the inner fabrics of his pocket as he frantically scrabbles inside it (it’s okay, my darling). He pulls it out (small, velvet and square), and slides it across the inches (miles) of desk between us, his trembling fingers causing the path of the box to be erratic and agonisingly slow. I see his mouth open (once, twice), as if he was verging on the edge of speech but abruptly reconsidering before clicking his teeth together with finality. He turns on his heel and flees the room, the flat, the building, until I see his blurred silhouette against the tarmac outside, dark and glistening under the streetlamps.

I pick up the box, smiling to myself.

His agitated form is still pacing repeatedly across the pavement outside the window and I can just make out the glowing embers of a cigarette perched between his lips, the smoke curling harshly upwards into the crisp november night. I snap the lid open (a flash of gold, your eyes), before placing it back onto the desk and standing to get my coat. There is no rush here. I shrug it onto my shoulders and begin my descent, for once my footsteps on the stairs resonating more confidence and certainty than his. 

The cold stings my face and I grasp his shoulders firmly, ending his ceaseless movement and drawing him closer to me (the night envelops us). His cigarette long since succumbed to the bleak air and as I crush it with the toe of my shoe I lean so our ears brush (my right, your right), and my breath reflects off the softness of his cheek. I whisper my answer into his skin, so gently that I am at first afraid it was lost to the darkness, until he pulls his mouth over mine and I can taste his thoughts, his relief, his thankfulness. It’s too wet, too bitingly cold but I am unsure how long we stood there, swaying imperceptibly under the glow of the lampost, clambering into one another’s skin.

(Yes, with all of my infinities, yes.)


End file.
